They were car guys and they were getting old. Johnny, Cecil, Mike, Tommy, Kyle and Greg; friends since high school; men in their mid-sixties; more than any other signifier they could imagine, they were car guys. Their garages are filled with shrines of pristine pistons and finely polished chrome. Aged autos far from dinosaurs, they were without flaw, cared for meticulously like the children of first-time parents, and loved unconditionally, even when a distributor cap wouldn't budge. They were bragged about and they were touched up regularly. Their owners, though, unlike the cars, were undoubtedly falling apart. Whether it was blood pressure, cholesterol, hips needing replacement or little blue pills hidden in coat pockets, their bodies were beginning to require more attention than their cars. Despite their aging bodies, it was time for the Dream Cruise, the once a year Detroit event for guys to show off their cars, get into a little bit of trouble and, more importantly than anything else, bond with their friends, and the guys were undoubtedly ready.